


Indispensable

by veorlian



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Romance, bioware let me kiss scout harding u cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24424873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veorlian/pseuds/veorlian
Summary: Curse Harding and her adorable little freckles and dancing green eyes. Curse her and her infectious smile. Curse her and her cute little laugh that sounded like the soft jingling of chimes in the evening wind. Maker take her, Joan felt like a wilting Orlesian poet pining after their lost love.Ugh, she’d been reading too many of Cassandra’s books.
Relationships: Lace Harding/Female Inquisitor, Lace Harding/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 15
Kudos: 36





	Indispensable

**Author's Note:**

> Sir that's my emotional support unromanceable NPC.

“Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service.”

 _Oh no,_ thought Joan, _she’s hot._

Joan Trevelyan had never been one for romance. If she was honest with herself, which she usually was, she just didn’t have the knack for it. It’s not that she was some blushing initiate, but years spent living in the chantry had drilled into her that romance, while nice, was something meant for other people. But here she was, looking forward to arriving in the blighted Deep Roads because it meant talking to Harding for just a little while. Maker, she was fucked.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she’d frequently joke, smiling down at Harding. It wasn’t becoming of the Inquisitor to be flirting with her head scout but sweet Andraste she couldn’t help herself. Curse Harding and her adorable little freckles and dancing green eyes. Curse her and her infectious smile. Curse her and her cute little laugh that sounded like the soft jingling of chimes in the evening wind. Maker take her, Joan felt like a wilting Orlesian poet pining after their lost love. Ugh, she’d been reading too many of Cassandra’s books.

“I’m telling you, boss, you should just ask her out,” Bull told her over drinks. Joan was sunk deep in her tankard, staring forlornly at her heavily-watered down ale. She pointedly ignored him.

“Cabot,” she said, “what’s the point of my being Inquisitor if I have to drink the same thing as everyone else?”

“Oh you don’t,” the bartender replied, not looking up. “Everyone else’s is much stronger.”

“This is because of the time Sera and I flooded the tavern isn’t it?” Joan asked.

“Consider yourself lucky, Inquisitor, I won’t even serve her, and she lives here.”

Joan pulled a face and took another sip from her ale-flavoured water.

“You can’t avoid it forever, boss,” said Bull.

“Sorry, did you say something?” asked Joan, who had very obviously heard him.

“Have it your way then,” Bull replied, chuckling. “But don’t come running to me when someone else scoops her up.”

“Keep it up and I’ll hit you with that stick again.”

“Promises, promises, boss.”

Despite herself, Joan snorted. Bull patted her on the back and let the matter drop.

It was worse in the field. Joan had taken to bringing Cole with her, and she was beginning to regret it deeply.

“Inquisitor, welcome to the Emerald Graves,” said Harding, smiling up at her.

“Eyes like stars, voice like honey. Heart fluttering like a bird caught in my chest oh Maker Cole please stop talking. Oh, sorry,” said Cole. Joan smiled at Harding weakly, too embarrassed to notice the faint pink tinge to the scout’s cheeks.

“What can you tell me about the area?” Joan asked.

And of course when she went into the Herald’s Rest it was only polite to stop and chat with Harding. It would be rude not to ask her how she was doing, after all. It was important to check in with everyone that worked for the Inquisition, to make sure that they were happy in their work. It was vital to stay connected to her people. That was the mantra that Joan repeated to herself over and over as her footsteps took her to where Harding stood outside the tavern.

“I thought all of Skyhold seemed a little brighter,” said Harding, smiling up at her, and Joan felt the air leave her lungs.

“What’s been going on?” she asked, in what she desperately hoped was a nonchalant voice.

“Lady Montilyet sent me flowers. She’s so lovely,” said Harding.

“She is, isn’t she?” said Joan. “But not as lovely as you.” The words slipped out before she could stop herself, and she felt her cheeks burn hot. She wondered, suddenly, if she could open a rift underneath her feet and jump into the Fade. Fighting demons forever seemed like a promising prospect.

But Harding was blushing too, and Joan felt her traitorous heart flutter. There was an awkward beat of silence.

“So what brings you to Skyhold? Shouldn’t you be out in the field scouting?” she asked.

“Oh, I can’t leave for too long, you people would fall apart without me,” Harding said, laughing, and Joan smiled. They continued to talk well into the evening, at which point Leliana sent a runner to remind Joan that she had other matters to attend to. She reluctantly wished Harding a goodnight and fervently cursed her spymaster.

She just felt so damn comfortable talking to Harding. Disconcertingly comfortable. She was smart, and funny, and the way she handled a bow made Joan feel things she’d long since given up on feeling. It was a rare day when they were both in Skyhold at once, but when they were, and when Joan could tear herself away from the War Table and the bloody machinations of politics in Thedas, they sat together in the Herald’s Rest. Sometimes they sat alone in a booth on the second floor, sometimes they pulled up chairs with Bull and the Chargers, teasing Krem mercilessly for his crush on the tavern waitress.

As time wore on, Lace became more and more involved with Joan’s inner circle. As it turned out, she had a gift for Wicked Grace, and an even greater gift for storytelling. Staring across the table at her, nursing a mug of ale, Joan realized with a pang that the warm feeling in her chest might be love.

“I’m just saying that when I write a book about you it’ll be more compelling with a romance subplot,” Varric told her as they trudged through the snow in the Emprise.

“Ugh, not you too,” Joan groaned.

“Think about it, star-crossed lovers finding comfort with one another in the midst of a crisis, stealing quiet moments together, audiences eat that shit up,” the dwarf insisted.

“Good writers don’t need to rely on a romance to help their book sell,” Joan said, deadpan.

“That hurts, Freckles, that’s hurtful,” he replied, but he was chuckling.

“Just let me suffer in peace, alright?” she said. Varric held up his hands in mock-surrender and opened his mouth to say something more, but Joan held up a hand, pointing to the red templar encampment ahead of them. They continued on in silence.

Almost unconsciously, Joan found herself following the now familiar path to Harding’s customary spot. The scout looked nervous, and Joan felt a pit open up in her stomach.

“You know that thing we do, when we meet out there? The playful banter? That – that’s just for fun, right?” Harding asked, looking up at Joan. Joan could’ve sworn she saw stars. It was hard to talk with her heart lodged in her throat, but eventually she managed.

“It is fun, and I’d like it to continue,” Joan said. Her words were calm and restrained, but her face betrayed her, as it often did. She’d moved past blushing and her whole face had turned an alarming shade of red. She smiled weakly at Harding.

“Really? Wow. I’m…stunned. And flattered. And a little bit afraid. Once this is all over, maybe I could take you out somewhere nice, preferably without too many demons?”

“I’d like that, Scout Harding.”

“You can call me Lace,” said the scout, winking at her. Joan choked and bravely endeavored to pass it off as a cough.

“Your name is _Lace_?”

There was always a notice in the Herald’s Rest of an upcoming archery contest. Joan felt mildly offended that Varric and Bianca were banned, but she wasn’t. She headed for the courtyard and was delighted to see that Harding hadn’t left for her assignment yet.

“Morning Lace,” she said, smile bright.

“Shush you,” said Harding, “I can’t have people finding out my first name, I’ll lose my sense of mystique.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Joan, chuckling. “Anyways, I’ve got a proposal for you, _Harding_.”

“So soon? I’ll have to write to my mother,” the scout replied, grinning. Joan snorted and shook her head. Blessedly, her awkwardness had vanished some time ago.

“I assure you that the Trevelyan courting tradition is much more ostentatious than that. Don’t bother writing until I’ve given you at least three fine steeds and a half dozen cows, and probably slayed a dragon in your honour.”

“You’ve killed five dragons already.”

“Yeah, but not in your honour, that was just because Bull wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Didn’t he fall unconscious immediately?”

“Oh yes, every time.”

Harding laughed that bright laugh that set Joan’s heart all aflutter.

“Anyways I hear tell of an archery contest,” Joan continued casually. Harding grinned up at her, eyes sparkling with what Joan could only describe as mischief.

“Oh? I’d better not participate then, I’d hate to embarrass you in front of everyone,” said Harding.

“Why Scout Harding, is that a challenge?”

“It wouldn’t be much of a challenge for me.”

“Big talk from such a small woman.”

“Oh, you’re on, Trevelyan.”

The small, fragile thing between Joan and her scout went mostly unacknowledged. There was a war to fight, and they each had responsibilities to the Inquisition that couldn’t be pushed aside. But Joan had gone well over a dozen years without a lover, and she didn’t mind waiting a little longer.

But now Corypheus was dead, permanently this time, and the Exalted Council had been called. Joan found Lace standing in the workshop, examining some of the new crafting materials. The sight of her made the red-hot burning in her arm fade away, ever so slightly. Joan cleared her throat and Lace spun around.

“Inquisitor! I was just going off to look for you,” she said. Joan cracked a smile.

“I won’t be Inquisitor much longer, Lace, you can call me by my name,” she said warmly. Lace blushed.

“Joan, I was hoping I’d see you,” she murmured, and Joan felt her knees go weak.

“As it happens, I was hoping I’d find you too,” Joan said, Cassandra’s words ringing fresh in her mind. She hadn’t given much thought to marriage, but now, looking at Lace, she felt the crushing weight of the council drift away.

“Marry me?” she asked suddenly. A moment later, she was knocked on her ass as Lace launched herself at her, kissing her with an enthusiasm that took Joan’s breath away, although that might also have been from the wind getting knocked out of her.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Lace laughed against her lips.

“Is that a yes?” Joan couldn’t help the shit-eating grin that spread across her face. Lace kissed her again. And then once more, for good measure.

“Yes,” she breathed, and Joan forgot the sharp pain in her hand and the looming threat of the council.

“Well, since everyone’s here, there’s no time like the present,” Joan offered. Lace let out a laugh.

“I was promised cows, Trevelyan, and a dragon,” she said. Joan sat up, winding her arms around Lace’s waist.

“Marry me right now and I’ll fight every high dragon in Thedas for you,” she promised.

“You’ve got a deal, Lady Trevelyan.”


End file.
